


oil, sweat and cinder

by applecrumbledore



Category: Berserk
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical rape mention, Golden Age, Golden Age spoilers, M/M, no non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-14 13:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecrumbledore/pseuds/applecrumbledore
Summary: Guts would spend the rest of his unthinkably miserable life trying to forget the tenderness of that kiss.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is super basic and not re-inventing the wheel or anything but i had an idea and i can't stop thinking about berserk
> 
> NOTE: second chapter will contain spoilers for the end of the golden age arc. the first don't have any.

 

“He’s always looked like that,” Judeau said. “At least as long as I can remember.”

He sat on the ground at Guts’ feet, leaning back on a tree stump someone had hauled out of the forest. A fire roared next to them, one of the dozens that dotted the field in the maze of tents that was their camp. Guts was winding a bandage around his forearm, one end of the cloth held in his teeth.

“Weird.” Corkus took a swig of beer on Guts’ other side. “He strikes me as the type of guy who blossomed, you know? Like a gawky kid who grew into it.”

Judeau balanced his cup from hand to hand. “I don’t think so. He was still young when we met—I mean, we both were—and he looked pretty much the same. A little smaller. Shorter hair.”

On the other side of the fire, Pippin raised his head from where he was bent over something he was whittling.

“Very pretty.”

Everyone roared laughing. Corkus slapped Pippin on the back and Pippin ignored him.

“That’s the word for it,” Corkus said, “pretty. That’s the only word.”

Guts glanced at Griffith’s tent, only a few yards from the fire. He kept wrapping his arm.

Pippin returned to whittling. With his head down, he said, “Mathi.” Judeau turned around.

“Hm?”

“Remember Mathi?” Pippin said, and Corkus groaned.

“Right, right. That poor bastard.”

Guts looked up. “Who?”

Corkus snorted. “There was one guy a couple years ago, a new guy. He was dumb as hell, and right away he was all about—you know. The way Griff looks.”

Guts nodded. He tied off his arm and picked up his beer from between his feet. 

“So this guy’s _convinced_ that Griff’s a pervert,” Corkus went on, “and he’s an alright looking guy or whatever, big and blond and what have you, so one night we’re all piss drunk and he says he’s gonna go for it and try to trick Griff into getting with him. His plan was to tell everyone about it after. He thought he’d be some kinda hero for saving the boys from a sodomite or whatever the fuck.”

Guts squinted down into his beer. “Right.”

“Right. A fuckin’ asshole. So he stumbles away from the fire and ducks into Griff’s tent.” Corkus sat back and took a swig. He smirked at Guts until Guts finally raised his eyebrows at him like _and?_

Judeau cut in. “Two hours later, Griffith dropped his head into the fire.”

Corkus laughed. “Just walked right up with the guy’s severed head, pouring blood, and dropped it into the flames! We all freak out and he just goes back into his tent, doesn’t say a word to nobody.”

Guts said nothing. He scratched his chin and Judeau refilled his beer. On the other side of the fire, two guys started talking about something else, and Guts stared into the flames. He looked up at Griffith’s tent, then back down.

“Two hours,” he said finally. Judeau sighed.

“You caught that, eh?”

“Hm.”

“No one knows what happened, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Corkus drawled. “Personally? I think they fucked, then Griff cut his head off so he couldn’t blab.”

“Keep your voice down,” Judeau hissed.

“Nah, whatever! You think he’ll do it to me? I ain’t his type, for fuck’s sake.”

“You’re an asshole, that’s what you are. Show some respect.”

“I’m being respectful! I was just messing, I don’t _actually_ think he did it.”

Judeau glanced at Guts. “We have no way of knowing what happened. Griffith could have spent the two hours torturing him. They could’ve spoken normally, and then when he propositioned Griffith, Griffith killed him. We didn’t hear anything, we can’t know.”

“No one’s asked?” Guts said. Judeau shook his head hard.

“Are you crazy? No. Anyways, it’s none of our business. It makes no difference.”

Guts stared at Griffith’s tent again. The thin burlap glowed faintly from the lamp inside.

“It isn’t like he hides it,” he said, absent-mindedly, and Corkus leaned forward.

“What?”

“He …” Guts stopped. He knew to stop, although a beat too late. Judeau moved so his shoulder edged Corkus out of the conversation.

“I was wondering if you’d mention that,” he said to Guts, who shrugged and looked away. “He treats you so differently from the rest of us.”

“Oh, _that,_ ” Corkus chuckled, determined to be part of it. “Yeah, man, me and the boys were saying the other day. The way he looks at you? Griff’s sweet on you, Guts.”

Guts snatched Corkus before Judeau could duck out of the way and he got his hair caught in Guts’ gauntlet; he tore himself free. But Guts got Corkus around the neck, and everyone on either side of them leapt out of the way. Corkus scratched uselessly at Guts’ hand.

“Jesus fuck! Sorry, _sorry_ , alright, nevermind! Christ, you’re—gonna crush my fuckin’ windpipe—”

Guts’ face was mottled red and his lips were pulled back in a snarl. Corkus howled in pain as Guts squeezed his throat and out of the corner of his eye, Guts saw Judeau watching him, silent and appraising. He dropped Corkus, who rolled half onto the fire and immediately out of it, screaming and patting his burning shirt. Guts sat back down without saying anything, snatched up his beer and drank the rest of it. He scowled down at his feet.

He didn’t notice that everyone had gone quiet.

“Guts.”

Griffith was watching him from the door of his tent, holding the canvas back with his arm.

He gestured with his head for Guts to follow him and Guts sighed. For a second, the only sound around them was the far off shouts and hollers of the other men, the crackle of the fire and the _shhk shkkk_ of Pippin’s carving knife. Guts hauled himself to his feet, handed his beer to Judeau and headed for Griffith’s tent.

Griffith’s armour gleamed in the corner and Guts eyed it appreciatively. His tent was spacious and warm, lit by a copper lantern on a folding table next to Griffith’s cot. Two folding chairs sat to the side of the room and Griffith lowered himself into one. Guts stood awkwardly by the door, shifting his weight slowly from foot to foot.

“His name was Mathi,” Griffith said.

“What?”

“The man Corkus was telling you about, the one I beheaded. Mathi.”

He’d heard them. Guts tensed.

“I know.”

Griffith waved a hand at the chair opposite him. “Come in, sit.”

Guts almost said, _is that an order?_ But he didn’t. He had no reason to fight. He sat in the small canvas seat and it groaned under his massive frame. Griffith twisted a lock of hair around his finger and let it go, did it again, then let it go. The silence was unbearable. Guts thought he smelled wine, but he wasn’t sure.

“Are you going to ask?” Griffith finally said.

“No.”

“About Mathi?”

Guts shrugged, uncomfortable. He did and didn’t care and he didn’t know why he was curious, but he was. Not enough to ask, although he was clearly going to be told anyways. Griffith leaned in with an almost-smile on his parted lips.

“I fucked him until he bled. I shoved my cock down his throat until he vomited. I came so many times I thought I was going to die, then I sucked him off until he sobbed like a child and begged me to stop.” He tipped his head to the side and his hair fell from behind his shoulder in a wave. “What do you think of that?”

Guts thought lots of things. He thought too many things for his mind to keep track of them and his consciousness scurried from one thing to another; horror, hatred, discomfort, awkwardness, curiosity and a burning, unexpected lust.

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why?” Griffith asked. “You assume that because I look the way I do, I must enjoy the company of men?”

“No,” Guts ground out, “I mean that I’m not surprised that _that’s_ what you did—that you made him bleed and puke and then sliced his head off.”

“So you think I’m cruel?”

Guts didn’t answer him. “All men do that. Most men can’t be kind with _women,_ let alone other men. Men rape men just to have somewhere to put their dick. They split them in half and spit on their graves, then fuck their girls. You’re no different.”

Griffith sat back and smiled. “Not that you’re wrong, but I didn’t rape him. He was very, very willing.”

Guts made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat, refusing to give Griffith the rise he clearly wanted. Griffith went on.

“He let me bend him over and fuck him like a dog. He _asked_ me to. He stroked my hair and called me Adonis.”

There was a commotion outside, but not nearby. There was the whoosh-roar of another log on the fire. Guts stared at Griffith and thought of what Corkus had told him. 

“He was playing you. He wanted to tell everyone he fucked you so he could turn them against you.”

It was mean and he meant it. Griffith leaned back on his hands.

“Oh, I know. Obviously, I knew, that’s why I killed him. But thank you. Then, I hadn’t been with a man since … I don’t even remember. It was selfish of me to not just chop his hand off and shove him out of my tent, but. I was parched.”

The discomfort that had been creeping up from the pit of Guts’ belly since the beginning of their conversation came to a head. _He_ was in Griffith’s tent. The same four burlap walls between which Griffith had, at one point, been with this Mathi. Called _Adonis_. Parched. He leaned back out of Griffith’s space, as if that would help. He turned his words over— _I hadn’t been with a man since_ —and realized what a confession that was.

He didn’t think Griffith would be able to kill him even if he tried, but he was bone-weary exhausted, had several healing wounds and was far from his peak, so it wasn’t unthinkable. Griffith’s sword glinted next to his cot and Guts’ sword was by his own tent. Idiot.

“Guts,” Griffith said, still smooth as anything, “you hardly speak when spoken to. I don’t know what you’d get out of telling your men about who’s shared my bed. You’re not the type.”

Guts bit the inside of his cheek. He said nothing and kept his back ramrod straight.

“But,” Griffith went on, “I resent what you said. That a man can’t be kind with another man.”

“You sliced a guy’s head off, then dropped it in a fire,” Guts said dryly.

“ _That_ man, yes. But that’s not to say two men can never share tenderness.”

Guts’ hackles were up instantly. The back of his neck started to sweat. Griffith’s voice dropped.

“In ancient times, on the battlefield, they encouraged romantic relationships between soldiers because they believed a man would fight with more devotion if he were in love with the man fighting next to him.”

Guts was tensed and ready to leap, a perfect pattern of _go, hit, leave, run, dodge, swing,_ but once his eyes flicked from the open flap of the tent to Griffith, he couldn't look away. He didn't have a word for the look on Griffith’s face or the tight, scratchy feeling at the back of his throat. Griffith’s hair blazed white in the lamplight, like looking directly at the sun, like the glare off snow. His pointed chin, the strong, sharp line of his nose, his impossibly pale, full lips. A rosy, living ghost.

“Griffith …” The name was heavy in his mouth. Nothing followed it. Griffith shifted and his knee touched his.

“I usually try to respect your privacy,” Griffith said, “because I know how you are, but since we’re already here, I might as well ask, knowing that you won’t tell me.” He stopped. Guts had never heard him pause during a speech. “Have you ever been with a man?”

Guts’ eyes slammed shut. He didn’t think about it. He didn’t think about it. He didn’t think about it. Nausea choked at his throat. He couldn’t do this now, he’d kill Griffith or someone else, anyone nearby, he’d kill _himself_ —

“Guts.” Griffith’s voice was soft this time in a way Guts rarely heard, and closer. He opened his eyes. Griffith was leaning in and his expression was pained and Guts hated it more than he had words for because it was pitiful and directed at him. “I know.” He looked down. White eyelashes on his cheeks. “I … _know_.”

Guts shut his eyes again. This wasn’t happening. Anything but this. Anger built in his throat until he was choking on it, until he couldn't think or breathe without the acrid stench of rage filling his mouth and nostrils and soul. He wanted to choke Griffith until he gasped for breath just for bringing it up, he wanted to throttle him until he begged him to stop because how could he even _imagine_ what he'd been through—until he realized that Griffith may have been through something similar. It was in his tone. Guts’ world cracked at the edges.

“Before,” Griffith continued, “when I was younger, a boy in my charge who wanted to be a knight died on the battlefield, five or maybe six years old, and I—I saw his body and I—he represented all the men who had died for me in the past, for my dream, in the way that men always die in war,” he babbled, and Guts realized he was _babbling,_ like he was desperate to tell someone, “and I thought—why him? Why anybody? Men died for me, or the abstract concept of me, and I thought—can I not take this pain myself? It was all about money, and there was this old man, this lord, who had taken a shining to me, and I knew, I _knew_ —”

He choked and stopped. He dug his nails into his own knee and Guts just watched him, trying to breathe and live, trying to process this unbearable sameness that he wasn't prepared for. He didn't want a leveled playing field, he didn't want anyone to speak to him. He couldn't hear it, he didn't want Griffith or anybody to _know_ him.

“Stop,” he said, and Griffith jerked his head forward in a painful nod, his hair falling in a curtain around him. His hands were clutched on his knees. They were hard and strong, all bones and sinew and pale like nobility, like someone who had never been outside, and Guts didn't know how he managed it. Thin nails, the points of his knuckles like spikes. Neither of them spoke. Guts swore he could hear Griffith’s teeth gnash, or it could've been the fire. They were too different, opposite worlds, but at the same time, too similar, and neither of them would—

Griffith cleared his throat, his head still bent.

“I know you could cut out my tongue if you wanted,” he said, and his voice was brittle and obviously posturing, even to Guts, who had the social graces of a tree stump, “but, if you let me …”

It wasn’t hard to supply the rest of the sentence in his head from earlier: _I’ll show you how tender men can be._ Mostly because Griffith was already leaning in. Guts didn't think. He felt nothing, blind, white, unthinking, primal, an animal body. He could have grabbed him and taken his throat in his hand like Corkus’, as easy as anything, not that Griffith would let him keep it there. But he didn't. He leaned in, and for years later, he wouldn't know why.

He kept his eyes open. Griffith’s pale eyelashes on his cheeks, a blurry freckle under his eye, the fine hairs of his eyebrows. Their lips met. Guts’ eyes rolled as they shut. It was the softest thing he'd ever felt and he’d never been kissed before, wet and easy, fluid, smooth and instinctive. Unimaginably gentle. It only lasted a couple seconds. He tipped his head and Griffith sucked his lower lip and nipped him, then let him go. There was a quiet sound as their lips parted. 

From inches away, Griffith let go of the breath he’d been holding with this soft noise—this contented, sweet, satisfied sigh, a rumble in the back of his throat, and it drove a spike down the middle of Guts’ skull.

He would spend the rest of his unthinkably miserable life trying to forget the tenderness of that kiss. Every night he’d spend half awake and leaning on his sword with the howling emptiness of his grief threatening to consume him, he would think of that kiss—the oil, sweat and cinder smell of his unwashed hair and that soft, human sigh—and his rage would give him a reason to stay alive.

Then, he didn't have the words. He didn't have the concepts, even, to describe what that was.

Griffith took his chin between his calloused fingers.

“When I said you were mine,” he whispered, “I meant it.”

_Is this a trick?_ Guts thought, and his sword hand twitched. _He's playing loyalty and messing with my head to get me to swear allegiance, he knows I want to leave, he's trying to get me to stay—_ He could see himself wrapping Griffith’s hair around his fist and pulling his head back to expose the long column of his throat, following it with his lips and teeth— _he knows what I—_

Griffith spoke close enough to feel his breath. “Whatever you're thinking, don't. You keep your head, you stay. I have no use for indentured slaves.” He let him go and Guts jolted back. “Make your own decisions about what to do here. I trust you.”

Guts expected something else, somehow, and felt sour for being denied explanation. The obvious explanations were too dull to be true, there had to be a game.

He cleared his throat.

“Is that what you called me in here for?”

Griffith smiled. He crossed one leg over the other and Guts watched him, then looked towards the door.

“You can go,” Griffith said, a teasing lilt to his voice. Guts scowled at him and stood. He saw Griffith watch him out of the corner of his eye as he ducked out of the tent.

Silence fell as he returned to fire. Corkus was in his seat and he booted him in the back.

“ _Ugh,_ alright, alright.” Corkus scrambled up and sat in the dirt. “What'd he want?”

Guts scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Want about what?”

“About wh—why'd he call you in there, freakshow?!”

The lamp in Griffith’s tent had gone out.

“He just talked about tomorrow,” Guts said. “Tactics.”

Corkus blew a raspberry.  “I knew it.”

Guts’ gaze flicked to Judeau and he was looking at him with a smirk, not quite a smile, not anything. A knowingness. Guts took his beer back and downed the rest of it in one pull. He could still feel the ghostly impression of lips on his own, and a hand on his cheek, even though Griffith’s had never been there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tw](http://www.twitter.com/cleenteath) / [tu](http://www.ronibravo.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought of an idea for a second chapter, so this'll be it. IT'S GOT SPOILERS. the first chapter didn't, but this one does. spoilers for the near-end of the golden age arc. 
> 
> NOTE (SPOILERS): takes place after griffith is knighted, but before the queen’s death. this would be adding an extra couple of days wedged in there between all that happening and guts leaving.
> 
> ALSO NOTE: i haven’t read the golden age arc in a while so please don’t bust my chops if it’s fresh for you and there’s stuff like “well in this chapter guts should have had a healing wound here and here.” thanks in advance.

 

 

Guts was awake when the door to the barracks creaked open and light cut across the room. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stone floor and stopped next to him.

“Griffith wants to see you,” Pippin whispered. Guts opened his eyes. 

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. He says to dress for snow.”

He hauled himself out of his bunk and scrubbed his hands over his face. “What time is it?”

Pippin said, “Early-late.”

“Christ. Okay. He didn't say what he wanted?”

“Just to dress warmly.”

Pippin crept back out of the room and Guts dressed quietly in the dark. He strapped on his sword and cloak and left, making his way through the dimly lit corridors to Griffith’s chambers.

He pushed open the heavy door. A young boy dressed all in black stood looking into the roaring fire.

Guts yawned. “Uh. Is Griffith around?”

The boy turned around. He had pale, nearly white blue eyes, sharp features and a full mouth. Not a boy, but Griffith.

“Shit! Sorry, you looked … short.”

His silver curls were hidden under a black cap. He wore a rough, dark cloak over a black shirt, black slacks and dark leather boots.

Griffith smiled. “Good. It worked.”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

Griffith tipped his head up and Guts could see better in the light. It was unmistakably him. If he asked, Guts would have told him it was a step up from the prissy, ruffled clothes he’d been wearing since they got into town.

“I don't want to be noticed. We’re going out.”

“We?”

“You and I.”

“Where?”

“A tavern.”

He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. Guts turned it over in his head and made sure he'd heard him right.

“A tavern.”

“Yes. For drinks.”

Seeing that he'd have a hard time getting out of it, Guts desperately wanted to suggest that Casca go with them. The three of them drinking together would be something completely different and much better than sitting alone with Griffith. They would be friends and comrades, or something like it. Him and Griffith sitting together wouldn't be like that.

“Where’s Casca?”

“Why?”

“She should come with us.”

Griffith raised his eyebrows. “I thought you didn't like her.”

“Sure I do.”

“Hm. Well, she's asleep, and if I wanted to ask her, I would have. I’m asking you.”

Guts wondered, not for the first time, if Griffith knew that Casca was in love with him. Sometimes he was sure that he did, and was callous intentionally. Sometimes there was no doubt that he was being callous by accident.

“Why?” Guts asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah. Don't waste my time when I could be sleeping. If there's something you want to say, say it now.”

“I already said it. I want to have a drink with you.”

“ _Why_?”

Griffith fastened his cloak. “Neither of us have time for this. Are you coming or not?”

Guts knew he should decline. Griffith couldn't make him go. If it soured things between them, that was good, because things needed souring. It would make it easier when he left.

“You're buying,” Guts said. Kicking himself.

Griffith smiled. “Of course. Come on.”

Guts made to follow him when Griffith turned around.

“Oh. And leave your sword here.”

Guts was so plainly shocked that he might as well have slapped him.

“No.”

“Yes. We’re going to a tavern, I don't want to invite fights. Drunks always want to fight the largest man in the room, and if you're armed, too, you're inviting it. Leave it. We’ll be fine.”

Guts made no move to unsheath his sword. He squinted at Griffith and Griffith looked back, spine straight, unmoving.

“As if you couldn't handle a few drunks with your bare hands,” Griffith said.

“It's not drunks I’m worried about.”

“Then what?”

“Everything else.”

Griffith rolled his eyes. “Nothing will happen. Tuck your baby in for the night and let’s go.”

Guts could've smacked him. Griffith turned on his heel and left, and Guts pulled his sword out, looked at it for a long moment, then left it behind and followed him.

 

 

The tavern was big and loud and glowed warmly from lamps on every table. In his black clothing, Griffith almost fit in, if not for his sharp, haunting eyes. It was funny to see him drink, and so enthusiastically. They each finished two beers before they said much of anything.

Finally, Guts huffed. “Fuck, alright. I'll bite. What's this about?”

Griffith hummed happily. “Why are you so sure it's about something?”

“‘Cause I’m not an idiot.”

Griffith raised his eyebrows like he wanted to argue. He didn't. He waved his hand and said, “Of course not. It's for something. Of course it's for something.” He put his elbows on the table and laced his long, thin fingers. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“About?”

“About … life. Everything. You.”

Guts sat back. “Why the fuck would you want that?”

“It’s complicated. I wanted to know …” He looked towards the bar. “Maybe we need another beer first.”

Guts thought of their kiss. That had been months ago. He stiffened. “Just say it.”

Griffith sighed. “Alright. To be honest, I just wanted to … to spend the evening in a tavern. I wanted to know what it's like to be you.”

Guts went blank. Griffith seemed earnest in a way he couldn't handle and every cell of his body was screaming for him to leave. 

“I'm the worst guy you could've asked for this.” He spoke jerkily. “Corkus, even Judeau. Those guys love taverns.”

“And you don't?”

“I like drinking around a fire. Less talking.”

“Even if it's me you're talking to?”

“Talking’s talking,” Guts said firmly. Griffith smiled behind his beer.

“I didn't want them. I wanted you.”

Guts refused to ask why. Griffith knew this, and he went on.

“I didn't say I wanted to know what it was like to be your average man. Most men want things—a wife, a family, money, glory. But then there's you.” He traced his finger through the condensation on his copper stein. “You don't seem to want anything. You don't seem interested in glory. Nor do you seem interested in women.” He raised his eyes and caught Guts watching him; Guts looked away. “You're … not _content_ , perhaps, but you don't want the big things. Maybe you want what we all want, purpose, but I’m not even sure of that. You swing your sword, and you do it well. The best, even. And maybe that's enough.”

Guts said nothing. Griffith’s eyes glittered.

“I’m … jealous,” Griffith said slowly. “I envy you. If you want nothing, you can't fail. You go where you're needed. I have no choice but to … to do what I need to do, because I've decided it. I couldn't give up even if I wanted to. In a way, I have less freedom than you.”

Guts downed the rest of his beer and set his stein down with a clang. Griffith had a funny little quirk to his lips that he didn't like.

“And you think getting drunk with me is going to fix any of that,” Guts said. 

“No. Of course not.” Griffith sat up straight and flagged down the tavern girl. “I just want to pretend.”

He ordered them another round. Guts eyed their new drinks apprehensively.

“It's not … good,” he grumbled. “I don't have interests. I don't _like_ anything. I don't know what I’d be like if I didn't do this.”

“And you think I do?”

Guts didn't say anything. Griffith leaned in.

“Humour me. _You_ may not want anything, but some of us do. I want you to talk to me.”

It was funny to sit across from Griffith when he looked so unlike himself. The dark cap and black cloak and shirt, and the drunken flush across his cheeks, was so unlike the gleam of his silver white armor that was so bright you could hardly see his face. Close up, he had cheeks and brows and faint dimples. A long, straight nose. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. He looked human and it was disarming.

“Fine,” Guts said. “What do you wanna know?”

 

 

“It's this way,” Griffith called, charging ahead through the falling snow. The snow on the ground was already nearly knee-deep and he loped through it easily. “No one patrols it in winter.”

Guts growled. He was sweating under his cloak from the effort of slogging through the snow, after Griffith had insisted that they leave the tavern and go “somewhere else.” He wouldn't explain where.

“Patrols what?”

“The royal gardens. They have a small one off castle property.”

“You're an idiot.”

“Nonsense. I’m a _knight_.” Griffith kept walking, having reached the stone outbuildings of the castle. In the distance, a wrought-iron fence ten feet high surrounded rows of heart-shaped trees, dead with winter.

Guts said, “There's a fence around it.”

“You're tall.”

Guts smiled despite himself. “You're a fucking brat when you're drunk. How old are you?”

This time, Griffith whirled around to glare at him. “Older than you. Watch your tongue.”

“Bite me.”

Griffith charged through the snow at a slightly faster pace and Guts struggled to keep up. When they reached the fence, Griffith stopped and turned around.

“Give me a boost.”

“Are you joking?”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

Griffith’s face was flushed all the way to his ears and a lock of hair had come loose from under his cap.

“I’m not your handmaiden,” Guts said.

“No, you're seven feet tall.”

“I’m not.”

“You're close. Just give me a boost.”

Guts grabbed the curled ironwork of the fence in both his fists and with a quiet grunt, he leapt up, caught his boots between the posts and vaulted over the top into the garden, leaving Griffith on the far side.

“Your turn, Sir Griffith.”

Guts grinned. Griffith scowled at him.

“Unbelievable.”

“You're the one who dragged me here,” Guts said. “ _You_ do it.”

Griffith rolled his eyes. “Fine. For God’s sake, you're difficult.”

“So are you.”

Griffith ignored him. He pushed his hat back and sized up the fence. Slowly, more awkwardly than Guts had managed it, he pulled himself up and scaled the fence one foot-hold at a time, narrowly avoiding catching his cloak when he jumped into the garden. Guts laughed. Griffith marched past him and Guts watched him go, slowly following.

“When we’re nobility,” Griffith called to him, “we’ll spend all our time at garden parties. Stuffy gardens, where we wear fancy shirts so soft they'll make you want to cry. Under this snow there are rose bushes and stone benches and peach trees, and they'll be ours.”

_We_. _Ours_. Guts scratched his ear.

“Sounds like bullshit,” he shouted back. Griffith pretended to twirl as if he were dancing.

“Not when you're the ruling class. They love it. As if that's any way to live—never gotten your hands dirty, never tasted blood. These sons of noblemen have never made a decision in their lives. Once you get power, all you want to do is get rid of the responsibility that comes with it. You sit under apple trees and tuck roses behind the ears of pretty girls.”

He stopped moving. Guts stared. Beer made him sloppy. He caught the glint off snowflakes in Griffith’s eyelashes and he could feel his pulse in his hands, his throat, his face. Everything was on the surface. He was slow and he didn't like being slow. If anything happened, he wouldn't be able to react, and if he had vulnerabilities, he lost everything else. But it felt good, and he wasn't used to good. He didn't know who he was, but he got to be someone else for a bit. Someone who noticed eyelashes.

“Is that what you want?” Guts asked. There had been such clear mockery in Griffith’s tone. “Is that _fun_ for you?”

Griffith laughed.

“Truthfully? No. Court sounds so unthinkably dull.” He wandered to one of the dead trees and looked up into its boughs, as if imagining its summer leaves. “You want to know what I think is fun?”

“Tactics?”

“Bloodsport,” Griffith said. “If left to my own devices, for entertainment, I would watch two men fight to the death. There's artfulness in good swordplay that nothing parallels. _Nothing._ ”

“Plus the blood and brains splattered everywhere.”

“That, too.”

Guts smiled. “That's … common of you.”

“Very,” Griffith agreed. “Well. It can't be helped. I can walk their walk and play their game, regardless of what I want. I want to be King.”

Guts bit his tongue. Not for the first time, he imagined Griffith as King: his candor, magnetism and terrifying, calculated ruthlessness wasted squabbling with old timers about economics and war. Sitting in the throne room wishing he could watch two men disembowel each other with swords. Wishing he could invite them into his chambers to fuck them senseless and then disembowel them himself.

All Guts said was: “Right.”

Griffith looked towards him and he could  barely make him out in the dark. Snow squeaked and crunched under his boots as he moved closer. Without a sword, Guts didn't know what to do with his hands, and he hooked them behind his neck.

“I’ll be King,” Griffith told him, “and you'll be at my side. Everything will be ours. We’ll want for nothing, and everyone in this kingdom will have to know that we _came_ from nothing, and they'll have to accept it.”

The speech came too late. Guts had already heard, what seemed like a lifetime ago, that Griffith didn't see him as a friend or equal. He was a thing: a sword, a snarl, a cock. His job was to slice, shout and fuck. Ideally, anyways, to Griffith. Guts was sure of it. He was supposed to help lead his men to victory, then follow him wherever he asked. Guts told himself that he didn’t care and that he didn't want it any other way, except that he could do without the last one.

Regardless, he wouldn't sit in court. He wouldn't tuck roses behind the ears of pretty girls. He wouldn't wear soft shirts and fuck Griffith whenever he was summoned to his chambers, while his queen slept elsewhere. He couldn't. He'd swing his sword, because he didn't believe in anything else. Not even Griffith.

He was so deeply uncomfortable with the current conversation that it was almost a relief when Griffith stepped so close into his space that there was no way he wouldn't start talking about something else.

“You’ll be so striking when you're old,” he said softly, peering up at him. “A grizzled old war veteran with a lined face. Flecks of silver in your hair. But still holding onto your … boyish charm.”

Guts couldn't remember if anyone had ever called him boyish. He wasn't boyish when he _was_ a boy.

“You're drunk,” he said flatly. Griffith smiled.

“Aren't you?”

Guts didn't speak. With the moonless sky, he could hardly make out the lines of Griffith’s face, even so close. He only knew Griffith was touching him when he felt the pressure of his hands on his chest.

“Can I tell you something?”

_No_ , Guts thought.

“What?”

Griffith breathed in deep and slow and when he exhaled it clouded in the night air.

“Sometimes,” he whispered, “you make me want to forget.”

Guts asked before he could stop himself. “Forget what?”

Griffith bowed his head.

“All of it.”

Guts knew this was coming. Griffith didn't stop at anything and he knew that one, strange, childish kiss in his tent wouldn't be the end of it. He'd been dreading the conversation for months, mostly because as much as he tried to plan for it, he still didn't know what he'd do when it happened. And hearing him say that— _you make me want to forget_ —spiked fear through his heart, and he didn't expect it. It wasn't fear for himself, but for the rest of the band. Their leader was capable of wavering.

“I don’t wanna do this,” Guts said plainly.

“Do what?”

“You fucking know what.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Guts said nothing. Griffith laughed.

“You have these strategic silences,” he said. “You use them well.”

Guts still didn't speak. Griffith’s hands still rested flat in the middle of his chest, as if he were straightening his lapels. He slowly trailed them downwards.

“I want one night with you,” he said quietly. “Take me.”

Blood rushed staticky in Guts’ ears. Fight-or-flight pricked in his fingers. Griffith went on.

“This isn’t an order. It's a request.”

For a long, long pause, Guts was speechless. Nothing about his time on earth had prepared him for that moment, or for that kind of decision. It would make everything worse when he left. This wasn't severing ties.

“You don’t make requests,” he said finally. Griffith looked up.

“I make exceptions to that rule.” His bright, pale eyes found Guts’ and the intensity of his look scalded him. “But I won't ask you again.”

Too much had happened in the past few months for Guts to spend much time dwelling on their kiss; his self-preservation instinct was perfect largely because he didn't allow for much soul-searching, and that's how he liked it. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know what he wanted, or whom. Beyond the occasional stab of lust directed nowhere in particular, he hadn't given it much thought. But Griffith made him nervous, and that kiss made him nervous, and he'd never been the focus of anyone’s terrifying, passionate attention before. He chalked his dizziness up to the beer.

“Where?” he choked out.

Griffith said, “If it were summer, I’d say we head for the forest, but we’ll lose extremities in this snow. There’s … an inn. In town.”

“An inn.”

“No one will recognize us.”

“You’re the White Hawk.”

“I’ll keep my head down.”

Griffith’s hands dropped from his chest and he took a half step back. The snow fell on his dark cap and his cheeks were blotchy red in the cold. He didn't look like himself. Infinitely less dazzling.

_No_ , Guts thought. _No no no no no no no no_.

“Nearby?” he asked.

 

 

The floor of the inn was covered in sawdust and the place reeked of decay. Ugly, red-nosed men drank themselves to death at oily tables around the wine-soaked tavern on the ground floor. A brightly lit staircase lined the left wall. Griffith made a beeline for the woman at the far end of the bar and Guts followed.

“I’d like a room for the night, please.”

The girl was pretty, with long cinnamon hair and an ample chest. She glanced up (and up and up) at Guts, who tried to hunch to hide his height and didn't meet her gaze.

“Sure,” she said, long and drawling. “Just one night?”

Griffith nodded. He handed her a fistful of coins and she tossed him a heavy brass key. 

“Number five. Up the stairs to the right.”

He turned and climbed the stairs without looking at Guts. Guts followed him a few paces behind, as if that helped be less conspicuous.

Griffith unlocked their room, went straight to the oil lamp in the corner and lit it, bathing the cramped, stuffy room in light. He took off his hat and cloak and unlaced his boots. Guts threw his over a rickety chair in the corner and kicked his boots against the wall.

“Hm.” Griffith picked up a teardrop-shaped bottle from the nightstand, corked and full of a golden oil. “A reputable establishment.” He held the bottle out to Guts. “You know what this is for?”

Guts snatched the bottle from him and barely refrained from smashing it against the wall. He snapped, “If you're gonna be a prick, I’m going back.”

Griffith shook his head. Guts dropped the bottle on the bed and grimaced. He felt embarrassed, like a little kid.

“Apologies,” Griffith said quietly. “I talk too much when I'm nervous. There. That fact is a peace offering. Good?”

Guts scowled at the floor. He regretting coming to the inn, he regretted breaking into the garden and he regretted not pretending to be asleep when Pippin told him that Griffith wanted to see him.

“Fine,” he said through his teeth. “How are we gonna do this?”

Griffith breathed out long and slow. He still had his hair pinned up at the back of his head, twisted and flattened against his skull. He picked at a tendril that had come loose.

“Surprise me.”

A challenge was familiar ground. Guts came around the end of the bed and stood in front of him, so close Griffith had to crane his neck up to look him in the eye. Griffith put his hands on his chest again, ice cold. He breathed hard and neither of them moved, tense with anticipation. Griffith’s eyes were wide and excited and he wasn't trying to hide it.

Guts reached out and slid his palm up Griffith’s throat. Griffith’s breath fluttered. He tugged his hair free of its tie and Griffith hissed in pain as he fisted his hands in it and pulled to tip his head back. He bent down and scraped his teeth up the column of Griffith’s throat. He bit him, not lightly, and Griffith shoved him back. He sat hard on the mattress and the thin comforter flounced up around him. Griffith was smiling as he came to stand between his spread knees and pluck at the front of Guts’ threadbare shirt. Guts grabbed the hem of _his_ shirt instead and tore it over his head. Then he took his own off and tossed it aside.

He squinted at the blood red egg that hung on a cord around Griffith’s neck.

“Take that thing off.”

Griffith’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Guts couldn't take his eyes off it. “I don't want it looking at me.”

After a brief, silent face-off, Griffith relented. He pulled the Behelit over his head and set it on the table next to the bed. Guts kept staring at it until Griffith turned his attention with a hand on his cheek. He'd stepped out of his slacks. It was strange to see him naked—not that it was the first time Guts had seen him—because his face was so fine-boned and feminine that to see the male body he hid under his armor was jarring. Untouched by the sun and speckled with scars, lithe and powerful. Barely-there pearly stripes marred the sides of his narrow hips. His flushed cock hung half-hard between his legs.

Guts felt sick, but it might have been nerves. He'd been hard since he pulled Griffith’s hair, and that surprised him. He realized he'd never had a reason to get to know himself very well.

Guts didn't move, he just stared at him, and Griffith seemed put off. He stood there awkwardly, naked while Guts only had his shirt off. His dick twitched. “Do you find me attractive?” he asked.

Guts’ head was cottony and slow, so he stood up, unlaced his pants and kicked them off; his body showed what was too complicated for his mouth to explain. Griffith looked down, and when he spoke, his voice was syrupy with delight.

“Good to know.”

Guts took Griffith’s head in his hand, the vee of his thumb and forefinger against his throat. He felt him breathe.

“If I say stop,” Griffith whispered, “you stop.”

Guts dragged his nails against the base of his skull. “I’m not promising anything.”

Griffith glowered at him and it was so outraged and contemptuous that lust stabbed hot and dry in the pit of Guts’ belly. He grabbed him by his arms, pulled him close enough to taste his breath, then threw him on the bed. Griffith’s flash of a smile was lost in his whirling hair. He laid on his back, his arms lazily spread, and Guts kneeled on the bed between his legs. Griffith passed him the oil bottle and he slicked himself up. He flicked his fingers.

“Turn over.”

Griffith settled back into the pillows. “No. I want you to look at me when you put it in.”

Guts’ face burned. Embarrassment was foreign to him and it stabbed at his heart like a physical pain, and he loathed it. He didn't say no, or anything at all. He leaned over him, braced up on his arms, and lined up. Griffith lifted his thighs over his and everywhere their bare skin touched sent panicky shivers through him. He met Griffith’s electric gaze. He didn't breathe, he didn't hold back. In one long, hard thrust, he pushed inside him and watched his pupils snap wide and dark. It was the last thing he saw before he squeezed his eyes shut to keep from coming. He didn't know what he expected; he might have been more interested in sex if he'd known what it felt like.

Griffith shuddered hard and his fingers twisted in the sheets. “ _Christ_.”

Guts didn't move. He couldn't think. One of Griffith’s heels slid up his spine.

“Go,” Griffith breathed. “Please.”

_Please_ drove him wild; the man who always got what he wanted  _asking_ him for something. He bucked his hips and Griffith cried out and he did it again and again, harder and harder, testing the shifting of his weight and the angle of his body. Griffith all but sobbed under him.

“You _like_ this?” Guts boggled at him.

Griffith could hardly speak. Every muscle in his body was taut and his head was thrown back. “More than anything.”

Guts focused on a single spot on Griffith’s shoulder to have something to look at that wasn’t his face. He got deeper and deeper and felt Griffith’s body draw him in, felt his thighs tense around his hips, listened to the wounded sounds he made. He closed his eyes. The shoddy bed frame banged into the wall with every thrust and something about the sound of splintering wood was oddly satisfying. 

The first time he came that night, it caught him off guard and ripped through him with such intensity that he dropped to his elbows and buried his face in Griffith’s hair. It had been a long time, and jerking off had never been so overwhelmingly _good_. He could hardly breathe.

“Keep going,” Griffith whispered, and he did. Griffith got his hand between them and jerked himself off and Guts didn't look, but he felt him come hot and wet on his belly and the sensation on his own spent dick was so intense he saw stars. After he caught his breath, he pulled out, dripped more oil over his dick and worked it in his fist. He glanced up and Griffith was watching him, openly amused. 

He said, “That was the opening act, I assume.” Guts sucked his teeth and looked away. Griffith touched himself with his fingertips. “I wouldn't expect anything less from you.”

The night ran on. Griffith rode him with his hands braced on his chest and teased him, poised with just the head of his cock inside him until Guts snarled and pulled him down. Guts flipped him over and fucked him on his back again, crouched on the mattress with his toes digging into the bed like a runner braced at the starting line. He bowed over him and a fresh wound on his shoulder opened and blood welled through his bandages and dripped down his back. He fucked him on his hands and knees. He twisted his tangled hair around his fist, pulled his head back and sucked a purple-black hickey on the back of his neck, until he was shaking with pain and pleasure. He came inside him so many times that he was almost numb. He wasn't gentle, but he wasn't cruel. Neither of them could speak or think of anything beyond coming again and again, like they'd die if they didn't. Nothing existed beyond the bounds of their mattress, nothing outside the doors of the dilapidated inn, no kings or dreams or swords, just this one, good uncomplicated thing.

Guts didn’t touch him more than logistically necessary—pushing his thigh back, fingers looped around his ankle to spread his legs, holding his hips as he hammered into him. But Griffith touched him. He carded fingers through his hair, slipped a palm down the ropes of muscle in his massive arms, hooked a leg around his hips. Once he held Guts’ face and pressed his thumb against his bottom lip, but he never kissed him.

Pinkish pre-dawn light leaked in the window on the far side of the room and Griffith came noisily with his arms looped around Guts’ neck. Guts slowed the beat of his hips to a stop.

“You're bleeding,” Griffith panted, twisting to show Guts the blood from his back smeared on his forearm. Guts looked down between them.

“So are you.”

Griffith shrugged and flopped back to the bed with his arms outstretched like wings. “It happens.”

For a split second, an unwelcome possessiveness ripped through Guts— _who else have you done this with? When? Am I better?_ —but it left as quickly as it had swelled. Griffith rolled his hips up.

“Come for me,” he said softly. “One more time.”

Guts pulled all the way out and slammed back in and Griffith nearly shouted. He did it again, harder and faster, and Griffith crossed his wrists over his head.

“Take my hands.”

Guts slapped a hand over his and his fingers fit easily around both Griffith’s wrists. Griffith closed his eyes and arched up into him, drew his knees higher at Guts’ sides, held on. He tested his grip and Guts squeezed him so hard his bones ground together.

Guts pushed as deep inside him as he could go, so deep it made him dizzy, and stopped there. Exhaustion slowed them down and made everything crash together, too intimate, too quiet, too vulnerable. He hung his face over Griffith’s. Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose onto his cheek and Griffith stared up at him with wide eyes and racing breath. His hair was caught in whorls under him and his lips were swollen from biting them. Without saying a word, he craned his neck up at the same time that Guts leaned down, and they kissed, wet and hungry and desperate. He fought against Guts’ grip on his hands to feel him fight back. Their tongues slid and Guts groaned in the back of his throat. He would've stuck his dick in his mouth if he could bear to leave the heat and tightness of his body.

“Don't stop,” Griffith sobbed, half swallowed by Guts’ mouth. “Please, please, pleaseplease _please_ —”

In the seconds before he came, Guts thought of how when Griffith was King someday, he'd still have to remember that moment: getting fucked stupid in a disgusting inn, babbling and begging Guts to finish inside him.

Later, Guts would remember that same moment when he picked up Griffith’s emaciated body from the dungeon floor.

For now, he just sunk his teeth into Griffith’s lip and came. It was sharp and almost painful, his nerves raw from the handful of times he'd already climaxed.

“Touch me,” Griffith begged, “I’m—”

For the first time, Guts closed his hand around Griffith’s dick. He didn't hate it as much as he thought he would. Griffith was coming over his knuckles after a couple twists of his wrist, breathing hard against his mouth, open in silent, shivery ecstasy.

For a second, neither of them moved. Their parted lips brushed and it was too soft to be another kiss. Guts’ heart beat a drum roll against his rib cage and he was wrung out, half-asleep, sober, sore and spent, and knew he must have looked almost as wrecked as Griffith did. He didn't know what to say. After all that, nothing seemed important.

He pulled out and rolled onto his back. The bed wasn't quite wide enough for both of them to lie shoulder and Griffith lay further down, his head near Guts’ armpit under his folded arm. The sheets were wet with their sweat, blood and semen, and without the frenzy of alcohol and sex, the room stunk like rot and other people’s wine.

Griffith sat up and rubbed his red wrists.

“You have inhuman stamina,” he sighed. “I thought you were going to split me in half. I lost count of how many times that was.”

Guts hummed. He watched him through the slits of his nearly-shut eyes: he cracked his knuckles, combed his hair so it spilled down his back and arched to stretch his spine. His wide shoulders tapered sharply to his small waist and he looked less pale against the white sheets. Guts closed his eyes. He was almost nodding off when he felt Griffith lie back down. He opened an eye and saw two staring back at him. Griffith was propped up on an elbow next to him.

“What?” Guts grunted.

Griffith reached out and traced the scar on Guts’ nose with his pinkie and the intimacy of it gave him a kick of anxious nausea. 

“You're exactly like I imagined you’d be,” Griffith whispered. “Thank you.”

Guts shut his eyes. He was caught between _you're welcome_ and _no, thank YOU,_ but the knowledge that they would never do this again, which was his knowledge alone, made his throat tight, and he said nothing. He hated the power he felt then, so different from the raw, physical power he was used to throwing behind his sword; it wasn't defensive or straight-forward and it didn't make him feel good. It didn't feel like power at all. It was destructive in a bad way. Fucking Griffith was one kind of power and being whispered to by him was another.

He thought: _if he kisses me now, I’ll stay. Not for long, but I’ll stay_. He wasn't made of stone. A hot, nervous flush rolled from his face to the soles of his feet at the idea of staying—one week becoming, two, three, and five years later he'd be sneaking into King Griffith’s chambers to suck him off after everyone else was asleep.

Griffith grabbed one of the pillows from under Guts’ arm and nudged him out of the way to lie down. His hair was downy like lamb’s wool against the inside of his arm.

_Thank God._

“Just a breather and then we’ll go,” Guts mumbled.

 

 

He closed his eyes and when he opened them what felt like a second later, it was full-blown morning and the sun blazed white across the rumpled sheets. Hours had passed.

 

 

“Shit,” he slurred. He sat up, his head pounding. Griffith’s arm fell from where it rested over his side. He slept lying on his front next to him with his head turned to the side, and asleep, he looked impossibly young. His lower lip was still raw. “Hey. Wake up.”

Griffith stirred. He rolled over and the Behelit thumped against his chest. Guts squinted.

“When did you grab that?”

“While you were sleeping.” He sat up and rubbed his face. “I didn't want to forget it here.”

Seeing their naked bodies together in the light of day was strange. Pathetic soft dicks and skin criss-crossed with pressure patterns from sleep. Their blood had dried brown and ugly on the sheets. Guts’ thighs ached and the night before seemed like a fever-wet dream.

He said, “We should get back.”

He saw Griffith turn his head out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't look back.

“Sure,” Griffith said, and that was it.

They got dressed. Guts sat at the foot of the bed and watched Griffith meticulously pin back his curls and hide them under his cap. Downstairs, he returned the key to the same tavern girl that was working the night before, then headed for the door.

She stopped Guts with a hand on his arm. “Wait.”

Griffith kept walking. Guts turned around.

The girl said, “Not to pry, sir, but why’s your girl dressed like that? You two on the run or somethin’?”

“ _Uh—_ ”

“Me and the bar boys got a bet that she's like, an escaped duchess or something. Mind you, we haven't heard anything about that. But speakin’ of hearing, and not to be rude, sir, but if you _are_ on the run, you might wanna keep it down at the next inn you visit. With all due respect, we thought you was gonna crash clean through the floor with that fuck-racket.”

For a split second, Guts considered coming back later and killing her. It wouldn't be hard for her to place this duchess who fucked all night as the White Hawk, either in a few hours or months from now, and the greasy guy with the scar over his nose as the White Hawk’s giant of a commander. The thought passed.

“Thanks,” he said, and joined Griffith outside. A few days later, he left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for all the kind words on the last chapter, too. mwah
> 
>  
> 
> [tw](http://twitter.com/cleenteath) / [tu](http://ronibravo.tumblr.com)


End file.
